Into Focus: A Second Chance Amnesia Romance (High Stakes Hearts Book 1)

by Becca Barnes

  After I got into my pajamas, consisting of flannel pants and a soft, old tee shirt which I was pretty certain was Evan’s, I stretched my arms to the ceiling like a lazy cat. Ow. Too soon. I gripped my fractured rib and rubbed it gingerly. I was thankful that Evan hadn’t seen, though. He’d been watching me like a hawk, and every grimace brought out a look of pained panic on his face.

  I stood at the end of the bed and stared at it, unsure which side was mine. I was about to toss a coin when Evan said, “left,” from behind me. No further explanation needed.

  He was a bedtime minimalist, I saw. Cotton pajama pants and no shirt or socks. He laid a glass of ice water on my nightstand and grabbed a pillow from the other side of the bed. He then proceeded to take a sleeping bag out of the linen closet in the hall and spread it out on the ground next to the bed.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Sleepover,” he said.

  “But—”

  “I’m not going to claim some archaic rights to the marital bed, Annie. You can protest all you want that it’s okay, but it would be awkward for you to share a bed with a man you’ve known three days.”

  “But—”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Well, then you could at least sleep in the guest room or on the couch. There’s absolutely no reason for you to sleep on the hardwood floors.”

  “You think I’m going to leave you in here by yourself? After you just got released from the hospital where you were in a coma?”

  “Then get in the bed.”

  “Nope.” He fluffed his pillow and settled in with a creak of the floors.

  “This is dumb,” I said, but I recognized a futile argument when I saw one. I pulled out my nightstand drawer. Everything was lined up exactly as I always kept it—books, phone charger, e-reader. My brow furrowed. Something was missing. Where was my diaphragm?

  “You looking for something?” Evan asked.

  “Umm.” After our conversation just now, it seemed a little silly to even bring it up. Clearly, there would be no need for it any time in the near future. But then again, I did want to know where it was. Just for, y’know, curiosity’s sake.

  “My, umm.” I curled my hand into a cup. “My diaphragm.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He gulped. “I think you moved it to the bathroom. I can look for it in the morning or—”

  “No rush.” The moment the words came out of my mouth, I kicked myself for phrasing it that way. Because if any more memories like the one from earlier came back to me, I’d need to start buying stock in the things.

  Six

  I’m pretty sure ninjas don’t have hardwood floors. Or if they do, they have some mad stealth skills that I don’t possess.

  When I woke up, Evan had already arisen. I smelled coffee brewing from the kitchen and some heavenly breakfast scents.

  Good Lord, had I married a man who cooked, too?

  I crept down the hall, trying not to bother him in case he’d already started his day’s work. He assured me it was no big deal to work from his home office, but I knew my presence would be a distraction.

  Hence the ninja skills.

  He was hunched over his drafting table, a blueprint unfurled before him. He’d already gotten dressed for the day, sexy as hell in ripped jeans and a rumpled flannel. I looked down at my grubby jammies feeling like the amnesiac slacker I was. I was about to turn around and get dressed when the floorboard in front of his office let out an almighty groan. I shifted my weight off of it, but Evan’s head shot up. He turned around to look at me.

  His eyes were bloodshot, and I could have sworn it was from tears that had welled up.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. Fine.” He rolled up the blueprint and slid it into a waiting tube. “Allergies.”

  Ehh. I knew that trick.

  But then again, this had been an unbelievably difficult week for him, too. He’d almost lost his wife, then he kind of got her back, only to find out that he’d lost her again. And now, I’m sure he felt like he was in the same bizarre limbo that I was in. Not quite fitting anywhere—the past or present. And wondering what on earth the future could possibly hold for us.

  “Wait,” he said. “What are you—? Get back in bed.”

  He toddled me off to our bedroom like I was a child and tucked me back in.

  “Dr. Anand didn’t say bedrest,” I reminded him.

  “She said to take it easy.”

  “Could I at least have my laptop so I can work on editing?”

  “Can you—what? No. Work constitutes brain strain.”

  I didn’t have the nerve to tell him the truth. I couldn’t just sit here all day with my racing thoughts and worries. It made the fear so much worse. Besides, getting up and moving—doing stuff—seemed to be a key ingredient in the recipe to getting my memory back.

  My mom showed up around lunchtime with enough food to feed an army. Then Evan’s mom came around dinner to finish the process of stuffing me until I popped. My mother-in-law seemed to take it as a personal insult that she had not been the first bearer of food, so she ran out to the grocery store to gather ingredients for a few extra meals. It was like dueling casserole dishes. Thank goodness we had an extra freezer out in Evan’s workshop.

  Jen came to visit two mornings later, before Evan had tucked away his sleeping pallet. When she saw it, her eyebrows drifted upward, and I shrugged. I didn’t fully understand it myself. He couldn’t think I feared that he’d force himself on me. He barely touched me, and when he did, it was with a measured, hesitant hand, like he was afraid he was going to break me. They certainly weren’t the same hands that I remembered from the quilt in the backyard.

  That night, Evan and I settled in for a movie marathon of mindless superhero films. He plopped on one end of the couch. I, on the other. About halfway through the latest Avengers movie, I stretched out. Without me having to say a word, Evan hopped up and grabbed a blanket for me, wrapping it around me like a cocoon.

  “I’m still trying to figure it out,” I said.

  “Hmm? Trying to figure out what?”

  “Your kryptonite.”

  “Wrong superhero universe.”

  “Huh?”

  “Marvel versus DC. They’re different . . . actually. Never mind. You could never keep them straight even before the accident.”

  I grabbed the remote and paused it.

  “I mean, I’m trying to figure out your flaw. You seem perfect. I don’t know what I ever could have done to snag you.” And so quickly.

  “You haven’t heard me sing yet.” Evan lifted his eyebrows comically. But then the man gave me the most freaking amazing foot rub, and that hit all the right notes.

  I dozed off on the couch, and it was well past midnight when strong arms scooped me up and carried me to the bedroom. Evan laid me gently on the bed and pulled up the covers around me. The next sound I heard was the hall closet opening.

  That damn sleeping bag.

  I wasn’t sure how that stupid piece of padded fabric had come to represent all my fear, disappointment, anger, and frustration with our situation. But it had.

  “No,” I said, louder than I intended in my half-asleep voice.

  He paused, probably wondering if I were talking in my sleep.

  I pushed myself up. It was proof of how well I was healing from my injuries that I only half-winced at a tinge of residual soreness.

  “No. You’re not sleeping on the ground.”

  “Annie, I—”

  “Get in bed.”

  “How about I drag the mattress down from the guest bedroom?”

  “Shut your mouth and get in this bed. Now.”

  “What if I . . .” His voice trailed off as he noticed my raised eyebrow of fury. Ahh. He was familiar with that particular look. It would appear Captain America wasn’t perfect after all.

  Without another word, he picked up his pillow and dropped it on the bed. He slid onto the farthest sliver of the edge of the ma
ttress. I let out a sigh. It was progress. Maybe.

  “My word. You’re so . . . stubborn.” His voice holds a heaping dose of frustration mixed with pure awe.

  “Maybe so. But I’m sticking to my guns on this one. Not yet. Not now.”

  “Okay, then. When?”

  “When it’s not so . . . complicated.”

  “Is that what you—?” His eyes are confused and more than that. Hurt?

  “Just not yet. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I woke in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. I tossed my covers off, unsure if my recollections were memory or dream or a combination. It had been a fight, but not one with sharp edges or even sharp words. More a dull ache.

  I glanced over at Evan, snoozing peacefully away. Whatever it had been, we must have worked through it. My last thought before I drifted back to sleep was the realization that our breathing had synchronized into one.

  Seven

  At some point in the night I must have gotten cold again. Good thing Evan was a human furnace. Seeking his warmth, I had wiggled over to his side and nestled into his arms in my sleep. I was still in that drowsy, snoozy state of half-wakefulness, like congealed wax that hasn’t chosen a form. My tee shirt had slipped up, exposing my abdomen. Without thinking, I pulled his arm tighter around me as if it were a particularly stubborn blanket. His hand splayed open, but I could tell he wasn’t cognizant of his movements yet. It searched for a landing place and found one on the soft flesh of my stomach.

  Mindlessly, his fingers trailed up and down my side then traveled to warmer territory, the sensitive crease of skin under my breast. My brain began to wake up from its stupor, and I realized that he’d berate himself if he woke up in this position, if he knew what he was doing. But it felt good—so natural, so easy. It felt like us.

  Like our bodies had remembered together what my mind couldn’t on its own.

  In slumber, we knew the steps to the dance that we stumbled over in the light, and I didn’t want it to end.

  I arched my back and pressed my body backward into his torso. His morning wood grew in response, and he brought his knees up to mold against my legs. I reached behind us and gripped his butt, pulling him harder against me, and he groaned in response. His fingers shifted upward to my nipple, and he played with it until it perked in response. But it wasn’t the only body part that responded.

  I was wet with wanting—no, needing—as I pirouetted to face him head-on. I wedged my leg between his, parting my thighs. An invitation waiting for a reply. Evan’s groans turned to growls, and he buried his face in my hair. I slipped my hand under the drawstring of his pants and drew my thumb along the length of him.

  In one swift movement, he jerked away. His eyes flew open, and he threw himself backward off the bed, landing on the floor with a thump.

  “Annie. Oh, God.” He covered his mouth in horror, like I’d caught him redhanded in the middle of a murder scene. He stood up, but it only accentuated the massive hard-on, which set me giggling like a seventh grade girl. He looked down, then closed his eyes in regret. “I’m so sorry. What all did I do?”

  Not nearly enough.

  Worse, I found myself disappointed that he didn’t remember stroking my skin. He couldn’t recall those instinctive movements that had knit us together mere moments before. Not even in a sexual way, just in a way that felt comfortable and natural.

  Well, and then sexual.

  Anger brewed in me. He was mine, damnit. I could sense it, feel it in my core. Even if I couldn’t remember it.

  I wanted to claim it. I wanted to claim him. And I wanted him to claim me.

  “Stop saying, ‘I’m sorry,’” I said.

  “What? You want me to congratulate myself on taking advantage of you?”

  “You weren’t taking advantage of me. You were spooning me. Cuddling. Making me feel safe and protected and secure.”

  “Yeah, while you were asleep and defenseless.”

  “I wasn’t asleep. If anything, I was taking advantage of you.” I threw my hands up in the air. “And defenseless? Why would I want or need to defend myself against you?”

  “But—”

  “Evan, I may never get all my memories from the past four months back. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have my husband back. I don’t need my memories to see why I fell for you in the first place. I’m falling for you all over again.”

  His eyelids fell closed as if he could sense the same thing I did, some invisible wall that had stood between us that was crumbling. He stumbled forward onto the bed and cupped my face like he was holding a fragile flower. He bent his lips toward mine and held them in a sweet kiss that was so perfect and pure, I could feel my heart clench.

  “I love you so much, Annie. I was so scared I’d lost you, and . . . and . . .”

  “Shh. You think all it would take to lose me is a little amnesia?”

  We both started laughing and kissing, and then he held me close like he’d held me earlier. But aware now. Fierce and warm. Possessive and calm.

  We dozed off like that, joined together as one, and I woke up an hour or two later. It was the weekend, and Evan didn’t have any work waiting for him. I pried my body loose, ready to pay him back in kind for all the coffee and breakfasts he’d left waiting for me this week. I’d gotten a pot of java brewing and some eggs frying before he padded into the kitchen behind me.

  “Mmm.” He came up and wrapped his arms around my waist. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I’m ready to earn my keep,” I said.

  “I’m pretty sure you make more money than I do,” he said with a laugh.

  “That reminds me. I need to go through my planner and figure out what the heck I’m supposed to do shooting and editing clients I can’t remember.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. “I think I’ve gotten messages from every professional photographer in the city offering to help in any way they can while you’re recovering.”

  It was a tight-knit community. I smiled, knowing that they’d all meant it. Thankfully, the winter was my slow season, so I’d have some buffer before things got crazy again in the spring.

  “Well, good to know, but by earning my keep, I meant, like, cleaning and cooking and stuff.”

  “You hate cooking,” he said as he shuffled to the front door in his slippers and brought the paper in.

  “You shouldn’t have admitted that,” I said. “You could have reprogrammed me to be Rachael Ray.”

  He chuckled as he opened the paper, and I marvelled at the normalcy of it all. Until I smelled the toast starting to burn. But then again, with my cooking, that was probably our normal as well.

  I still had a hard time remembering which cupboard the plates were in, and I opened three before finding them. I looked at them for a minute. Something felt off.

  There were my plates and his plates. They didn’t clash or anything, but I realized what I found odd.

  “Did we not register?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” he murmured absentmindedly, nose-deep in an article.

  “For wedding gifts. Did we not set up a registry?”

  “No, we were going to wait until—” He cut himself off but didn’t lower the paper.

  “Wait until what?”

  “Nothing. We just wanted to wait.” He flipped the top of the newspaper down and gave me a shrug. “It wasn’t a long engagement. We had all the essentials covered between our two places, and we thought there might be things we’d need later on.”

  “Ahh.” Made sense. And it had been such a small, intimate ceremony. Maybe we were planning on a larger reception later on.

  After breakfast, I headed upstairs to tackle my work planner and client list. Thankfully, I’d used the same organizational system for years, so it didn’t take as long as I expected it to. I only had a handful of events scheduled out for January and February, and two of my closest photog friends texted back within minutes that they’d be happy to take them off my plate. There were a
few large gaps in my schedule, which was unusual for me, but those weren’t until later in the summer. I tapped the desk with my nails. I booked months in advance, sometimes upwards of a year. And I could have sworn I’d booked at least two August weddings last June. Maybe they were cancellations. I did all my scheduling with a virtual assistant named Marcy. I made a note to ask her about it on Monday.

  I swiveled in my chair and faced my shelf of albums. Evan had replaced the leather bound one of my favorite shots, and I pulled it out. With even the short amount of time between now and the hospital, the pictures felt more real. More true. I still didn’t remember the exact moments they had captured, but it didn’t feel like I was looking at two strangers on the pages anymore.

  My heart still ached when I reached the wedding shots. Maybe a trip to the beach would spur on the recollection of those. But this time around, I focused on the expressions on our faces. The best I could come up with was adoration. Evan regarded me with a gaze just short of reverence. Again, the thought sprang up unbidden in my mind: what did I ever do to deserve him?

  I sensed I was being observed, and I glanced up to find Evan watching me from the open landing area. That same look was in his eyes now. Almost worshipful in its intensity.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi. Just checking to make sure you’re not working too hard.”

  “Just looking at . . .” I held up the book in explanation.

  “Don’t let me bother you,” he said.

  “You’re not.” But then I turned the page to his nude, and heck yeah, I was bothered. Hot and bothered.

  I shut the book with a snap, making my decision, and grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the stairs.

  “What are you—?”

  “What do you think?”

  Eight

  Thank God for pajama pants.